


Homecoming

by alexcat



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bored Sherlock Holmes, Domestic John Watson, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/pseuds/alexcat
Summary: Dr. Watson comes home to what is normal chaos for someone living with the eccentric genius that he lives with. John takes it all in his stride as he sets things to right.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightymads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/gifts).



> I have tried to stick to ACD canon Holmes/Watson as much as possible though I have to admit that I always see Jermey Brett's Holmes in my mind's eye.

I had been away from 221 B baker Street for several weeks. I had gone to help care for a critically ill surgical patient I feared would die. Luckily, the patient was well on the road to recovery and I was anxious to get home for a little rest before taking up my regular office hours again. 

When I arrived home, I walked into what can only be described as a disaster zone. I was in the war in Afghanistan and our lodgings had the look of a war zone. There were papers strewn all about. Holmes gets every single edition of every single paper in London, both morning and evening editions, and every single one since I’d been away was somewhere within the confines of our sitting room. 

He obviously had not allowed Mrs. Hudson or the maid to take away any dishes or tea cups either. The table was piled high with dirty dishes, some of the stacked cups looked like they might topple at any moment. There were bits of food and cold tea still in them. 

There were notes and pieces of paper strewn about as well as several books piled about open to the page Holmes had been consulting. His desk drawers were open and his syringe on the desktop. He normally kept it in the drawer because he knew I didn’t exactly approve of his use of cocaine. 

He must have been bored while I was away. As cluttered and messy as our rooms were, Holmes mind was neat and ordered. Unless it had nothing to do. 

It was my job to make sure the outer clutter did not impede his spotless mind in its tasks. Or to put it more bluntly, I was the one who cleaned up Sherlock Holmes’ horrible messiness. Though I am sure he would disagree, I made _him_ look good. 

When he had no tasks, the inside of his head resembled the outside messiness and clutter. I cleaned that up, too, when I could. A case was the best cure for whatever ailed him. 

“Holmes? Are you here? I am home from Mr. Gravely’s and I’m happy to report that he is, at last, on the road to recovery.”

Nothing. Quiet. 

Mrs. Hudson said he was home so I knew he was lurking somewhere about. I stepped into his bedroom and there he sat. He was sitting on a stool, staring at the letters “VR” that he’d shot into the wall some months back during one of his periods of inactivity. 

I immediately worried that he was unwell. When Holmes got bored, he could get himself into no end of trouble, most inside his own mind. He became broody and distant, almost paranoid at times. 

“Ah, there you are.” I found that it was best to act as if things were completely normal. 

“Ah, Watson. Do you have a case?”

“No. I just got home.”

He was still in his pajamas, which looked as if they’d not been laundered in some time. His hair was a mess and his eyes, oh my, his eyes had the look of a wild thing. He had been in his cocaine for sure. He swore it made things clearer but I am sure it only made him more manic and paranoid than simple boredom did. 

“Perhaps a bath and some clean clothing would be in order. We can ask Mrs. Hudson to bring us some tea and biscuits to tide us over until dinner as well,” I said as I approached him. 

He smiled at me. “I have missed you, my dear Watson.” 

I realized I must tread lightly. Holmes was not given to terms of endearment and when he used them, he was usually in one of his more paranoid moods. It did not do to become embroiled in a physical altercation with him as he was quite a good boxer and I still suffered from some pain from my war injuries. 

“I missed you, too. Shall I leave you to rest while I tidy up?” 

He looked at me darkly for a moment then nodded. “I am afraid that Mrs. Hudson has let the place go while you were absent. Good help is hard to find.”

“Now, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson is our landlady, not our maid and that she sends Trudy up to clean sometimes is out of kindness on her part. We mustn’t intrude too much on her goodness.”

He nodded. 

So far, so good. 

“Did you visit a woman, Watson? Is that why you were gone?” 

“No, Holmes. I was helping care for a patient, Mr. Gravely. He was quite ill and I stayed to see to him until the passed his crisis.” 

Perhaps I should explain, if you promise not to make this public in any way, that Holmes and I are very close friends. We sometimes share the same room. He sometimes got jealous when he was in one of these moods. 

“Ah, the good doctor.” 

I smiled at him. 

“I shall tidy up now. You rest and we’ll get a bath before tea time. How does that sound?” 

I wondered for a moment if he was going to argue with me. He didn’t. He resumed staring at the wall. I left him and began stacking the papers up to take down to burn. I took one tray of dishes down to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. 

“How many more are there?” she asked. “I was beginning to run short on cups.” 

“Oh several more trays full. Shall I help wash them?” I asked. 

“No. I can get them. Stack all his papers by the stove so we can burn them. Shall I call the laundress to come tomorrow?” 

“Oh yes, please. He seems to only worn a few things but the sheets and towels need laundering.” 

“I’ll have one of the boys take his clothes to the laundrywoman.” 

I thanked her profusely and went back upstairs to get another tray of dishes. 

Holmes was sitting in the sitting room when I got back from my last trip with dishes and papers. 

“Did you toss all my papers?” he asked. 

“Todays’ are on the table. Morning on top, oldest below,” I answered as I picked up trash and assorted debris from the floor and the surfaces in the room. 

“Are you going to bathe me?” he asked as I stopped to look around the room. It was dusty but it looked well enough now with everything in its place and the clutter gone. 

“Is that what you want?” My heart sped up a little. I had missed him as well. 

He stood. “I do. You must need a bath as well, after your traveling.” 

Mrs. Hudson might not have been wealthy, but we had a modern bathtub with hot running water. I began to fill the tub with water as Holmes began to remove his clothes. He seemed himself again and his eyes were much clearer now. The cocaine had worn off finally. 

I watched. He was taller than me and appeared quite lanky, though he was deceptively strong. His face was long and thin as well with that prominent nose that lent him a more dignified look than he’d have had otherwise. 

“Are you bathing with me?” he asked. 

“Let me lock the doors first.” I checked the front door and the door to our bath. It wouldn’t do to have anyone walk in. Neither of us would do well in gaol, which was the penalty for the baths we often took. 

I removed my own clothing. He stepped into the tub and sat down. I got in and sat between his open legs. He began to wash my back with a washcloth. I sighed. It would not be the last sound emanating from either of us for the next half hour or so. 

We both smelled and felt much better after our bath. I decided to tackle gathering up the laundry and changing his bedding. Holmes made himself comfortable in his chair and lit his pipe, as he often did after a ‘bath’. 

“Lestrade will call around in the morning,” he said. 

“Has he sent a message? What is it about?”

“No. There was a story in the paper about a bank theft. It happened after the bank was closed and no one was seen anywhere about by the night watchman. Reportedly, the only thing stolen was a Masonic pin belonging to the bank manager. I daresay that there is more to it than reported and I expect to hear from Lestrade first thing.”

“Have you figured out what happened already?” I asked. He often knew as soon as he read about a crime how it was done and who most likely did it.

“I have a good idea.”

I put the last of the clothes in a basket that Mrs. Hudson sent up for just that purpose. I took clean sheets from the bottom drawer of the chest and made his bed, a job we did for ourselves, not wanting to embarrass Mrs. Hudson or Trudy with our soiled sheets. 

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked as I set the basket out into the hall. He had followed me back into the living room. 

“I think I shall wait and let you see the evidence and see what you deduce from it.” 

I smiled. He’s going to make a decent detective of me yet, I suppose. “Shall I ring Mrs. Hudson to bring up that tea now?” I asked. 

“That sounds delightful, my dear Watson.” 

He sat down at the table to wait, picking up the paper I had brought in from the hall when I’d set the laundry outside. One of the boys, the Baker Street Irregulars, or perhaps Mrs. Hudson had left it there for him. 

“Let’s see what is happening this evening,” he said as he began to read. 

It was good to be home.


End file.
